


Not With Those Teeth, Mate

by rac06h10ael



Series: Let Us Entertain You [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), High School Musical (Movies), Queen (Band)
Genre: Anita Is Brian's Mom But Nothing Happens Between Them, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Having Two Johns Is Going To Be Difficult, Hope you enjoy, I apologize in advance, John Reid Is A Meanie, Just Queen If They Were Cast In HSM, Lots Of Unnecessary Drama, M/M, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Roger Thirsts After Lesbians, Shy John Deacon, This Is Just One Big Gay Mess, What Did John Reid Do, What Happened To Roger's Mom, What Have I Done, What Is John Reid Hiding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rac06h10ael/pseuds/rac06h10ael
Summary: When newcomer Brian May joins the world-renowned record label, EMI, not only does he catch the eye of aspiring solo artist, Roger Taylor, but he stirs up the pot by creating more competition for EMI's beloved song-writing duo, Freddie Mercury and John Deacon. Vying for the chance to be the supporting act on Mott The Hoople's summer tour, the four must compete and prove to the record label that they deserve the opportunity of a lifetime over the other.Find out what happens in "Not With Those Teeth, Mate," the first book of three in the "Let Us Entertain You" series based off of Kenny Ortega's "High School Musical."***Shorter, broken down chapters on Wattpad under the same username***
Relationships: Anita Dobson/Brian May, Brian May/Chrissie Mullen, Brian May/Roger Taylor, Dominique Beyrand & Chrissie Mullen, Dominique Beyrand/Roger Taylor, Elton John/John Reid, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Brian May, John Deacon/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Series: Let Us Entertain You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605652
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nachaelsquared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachaelsquared/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and therefore is egregiously inaccurate when compared to real life. Things such as established time lines regarding the band's history - how they formed, when albums and songs were released, who wrote the songs and why - and their relationships amongst themselves and others have been altered to fit the vision for this story. These changes were not made with the intent to offend, but rather to add humor to the story and drive it home. Again, this is a work of fiction in which common knowledge about the band and their history does not apply. All views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author who wanted to combine her favorite band with her favorite childhood movie trilogy and do not reflect the views and opinions held by the characters involved.

It was almost the start of the new year, and in the heart of London, EMI was bursting at the seams with anyone who was someone and wannabes on their way to becoming someone. The record label was hosting its annual New Year’s Eve party, and they accommodated these two kinds of guests by throwing two parties – one for the hopefuls, giving them the chance to show the label what they could offer, and the other for the veterans, showcasing some of their more long-term residents.

Sitting in one of the hallways, far away from the commotion that shook the floors and walls of the building, was a tall, slender boy with a mop of dark brown curls surrounding his face, his knees drawn in and a book in his angled lap. He always preferred the quiet and peaceful over the loud and chaotic, but his stepmother, Anita, had dragged him to London in hopes of him meeting someone who could further his career as a guitarist.

She’d listened to him pluck the strings of his Red Special late at night, and she felt it would be a shame to waste that kind of talent on an unreliable career in Astrophysics. _What kind of jobs would he even apply for?_ she constantly wondered, taking matters into her own hands and setting the boy up with the label. They weren’t due to meet with the executive until a week later, but she figured it wouldn’t do him any harm to get an early taste of who he’d be working with.

“Brian,” she snapped, lifting his gaze up from the physics textbook as she approached him – arms crossed over her chest and a disappointed look on her face, “It’s New Year’s Eve. Enough reading.”

“But I’m almost done,” he lied to her, a desperate whine in his voice that couldn’t be disguised as she snatched the book out of his hands.

“I didn’t bring you here to read, mister,” Anita reminded him, skimming the indecipherable pages herself before furrowing her eyebrows together in confusion and closing the book with a force that startled the boy at her feet. “Now get up and go make some friends.”

“Can I at least have my book back?” the guitarist pled, holding his hand out. His stepmom rolled her eyes and begrudgingly relinquished possession of the textbook. “Thank you,” he muttered, picking himself up from the floor and brushing off the back of the nicest pair of jeans he owned.

“Come on, Bri,” she mumbled, leading the two of them down the hallway towards the party.

Meanwhile, in one of the studios, John Reid and his stepson, Roger Taylor, were working on the beginnings of one of his new songs. The blonde was sitting behind a set of drums, tapping the skins with a ferocity that brought a proud grin to the music manager’s face. If there was one thing the boy could do, it was playing the drums. He liked to dabble in other things like guitar and synthesizers and singing, shaping a promising solo career around it, but he shone best when he was behind the kit.

Roger stopped at the end of the rhythm he’d been working on and set his sticks down on one of the drum heads, slinking into the control room where his stepfather stood and asking, “How was that?”

“Good, but I’d keep working on it,” John suggested, giving the boy a playful punch on the arm, “You’ve got that record deal coming up, and we want to blow them away!”

Still breathless from the intensity he played with, Roger rubbed the back of his neck and heaved a sigh. “So, what do I need to do then?”

“Oh, you know, just—”

“Boys?” The father-and-son pair turned their heads towards the door, where John’s boyfriend, Elton, stood in the threshold – hands on his hips and a ridiculous outfit on his back that embarrassed the blonde to no end but hadn’t fazed the manager at all. “Please don’t tell me we only came to this party for you to work more on your bloody music.”

“Well, yeah,” John answered with a chuckle, “He’s gotta get these songs down, and we can’t let a stupid party get in the way of that.”

“This is the one party a year this record label throws for people like him…” Elton threw a finger in the blonde’s direction, “…and you can’t even have the decency to show up? You’re a manager, John, people are asking for you!”

The manager groaned in displeasure, averting his gaze to the drummer who’d folded his arms over his chest and hung his head in silence, not wanting to be a part of this conversation. It wasn’t that he agreed with Elton or disagreed with John; in fact, he wanted to do both, but making his stepfather proud was more important to him, and so he acquiesced to John’s suggestion of sneaking off and slipping into one of the studios to work out this new idea of his instead of mingling with other musicians, or even possibly – hopefully – getting lucky with one of them.

“Can we at least do one more take?” John begged.

“Last one,” Roger tacked on, earning the two of them an eye roll from the manager’s flamboyant boyfriend before he strutted away, leaving behind a trail of sequins as he retreated to the party. The duo shared a triumphant high-five, the blonde running back into the studio and repositioning himself behind the drums while the manager sat down in front of the console.

*****

Brian peered his head into the crowded room, scoping the sea of mostly young, moving bodies for a place he could hide in. The corners were definitely an option, but they had already been taken by other wallflowers and by couples who couldn’t keep their hands off one another – not caring to partake in their infatuation on the dance floor. There were a few seats available in the mix of partiers, but he worried that someone might trip over themselves and spill their drink over his textbook.

Inevitable accident after inevitable accident flashed through the guitarist’s mind, and it wasn’t long before he felt something – or rather, someone – nudge him in the back. He quickly looked over his shoulder to see his stepmom, an encouraging expression on her face as she nodded towards the party, urging him to join it. Brian heaved an annoyed sigh and clutched his book close to his chest, daring to enter the tightly packed room while still searching for a place where he could study in peace (or as much peace as such a setting would allow).

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Roger had slipped in and was working his way through the room, seeking the refreshment’s table for a drink to lessen his nerves. He needed it after his impromptu studio session with his stepdad, and alcohol always made engaging in conversations easier, helping him exude the confidence, suaveness, and outgoingness everyone expected him to have.

“All right!” the emcee on the stage exclaimed, his voice booming through the speakers and overpowering the cheers and applause that consumed the atmosphere. Brian, having taken the risk of situating himself on one of the couches that sat just outside the congregation in the center of the room, shook his head, trying his best to focus on his book while the emcee shouted, “Give it up for Alannah and Tom! How were they?”

Roger glanced over his shoulder at the stage, catching the eccentric looking pair – the man with a ponytail that ran down the middle of his back and the woman with the sides of her head shaved and a mop of blonde curls on top – before they walked off the stage, waving at the audience who couldn’t get enough of them. The drummer shook his head at the prospective duo and returned his attention to the table, scanning his options and asking the bartender what she recommended.

“Who’s going to rock the house next?” the emcee asked excitedly, eliciting another thunderous roar from the crowd. When no one volunteered to come up on the stage after a whopping five seconds – far too long of a pause for the informal concert that needed to last all night, or at least up until the clock struck midnight – the guy gestured to the man across the room, prompting him to power up the spotlight that had been brought in just for this occasion. (EMI never skimped out on their parties.)

The sphere of light glided across the room, first landing on the blonde whose eyebrows rose in a mix of surprise and horror as the person next to him grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a congratulatory shake. “No, I-I don’t have my girls. I can’t—”

His words dissipated into an incomprehensible stutter as he was led to the stage by others in the crowd and the spotlight graced its next victim – the curly-haired man too engrossed in his book to even realize it at first. It wasn’t until he was grabbed at and yanked out of his seat, the light blinding him as he was pulled to his feet and dragged up to the stage, that he understood what was happening. He shook his head in refusal, wanting to be left alone, but he was thrown up there just like Roger had been. The two looked at each other anxiously, an embarrassed blush rising in both their cheeks.

“You know, someday you guys might thank me for this,” the emcee joked, placing a hand on each of their shoulders and flashing them a brilliant smile.

“I doubt it,” Roger sneered at the guy whose grin instantly faded. He backed away from the two and hopped off the stage, leaving the men to share awkward glances as they debated whether or not to introduce themselves, crack a lighthearted joke about how much this was going to suck, or head straight for the door and never come back. Of course, the last idea wasn’t a viable option for either of them – Roger’s stepfather was notorious within the label and granted him access to opportunities that otherwise would’ve been unattainable, and Brian was starting a week from then. Darting off stage would look bad for them both.

Knowing John would never let him live down his choice to deny a chance to perform, Roger heaved an irritated sigh and cupped the microphone head in his hands, bluntly asking the stranger beside him, “You know the Beatles?”

Brian glanced over at him, apprehension glistening in his eyes as he stammered in response, “Y-Yeah, who doesn’t?”

“Yeah, but how well do you know their songs?” the blonde continued his pressing interrogation, the clamorous crowd dying down as they grew impatient for the next act.

“Fairly well,” the taller of the two answered modestly, “Why?”

“Because we’re gonna sing ‘Another Girl’.” The blonde jerked his head forward, winking at the DJ before wrapping his hand around the microphone and belting into it, “ _For I have got…”_

 _“…another girl,”_ the pair sang together, their voices meshing together almost instantly. Roger’s eyebrows perked up in surprise as they repeated the phrase again, their sound nothing like he’d ever heard before. The blonde possessed a particular, unique, one-of-a-kind voice that John never failed to point out, and it didn’t always mix well with others, but the match between his and this other boy’s voice was undeniable.

It didn’t take long after that for the two to get into the swing of the song, alternating verses that became easier with each iteration and coming together in a perfect harmony for the chorus: “ _Another girl, who will love me till the end. Through thick and thin, she will always be my friend.”_ By the end of the song, Roger and Brian were no longer restricted to their respective mic stands, having taken the microphones out of their holsters and starting to interact with one another, the crowd soaking up every second it. Facing one another with their eyes locked, they sang the last lines of the song to each other and no one else. _“Another girl…another girl…another girl.”_

The final guitar rift echoed through the relatively small room, time seeming to slow down for the pair of strangers before picking up speed when the room erupted into another wave of applause and encouraging shouts and whistles. Roger and Brian’s hearts pounded against their close chests, the room and people around them but a mere afterthought as they struggled to find the words to say.

“Roger,” the blonde finally introduced himself, snapping out of the daze he’d fallen into while staring into those captivating brown eyes he hadn’t seen before. He was familiar with most of the people in attendance – only by face, though – and this was one he didn’t recognize.

“Brian,” the guitarist replied, matching the drummer’s growing smile.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re a really good singer, you know,” Roger commented as he and Brian hopped off the stage – replaced by another musician whose head was on the chopping block – and made their way over to the bar. “Why haven’t I seen you around here before?”

The curly-haired man bit his lip, slipping his hands into his pockets and scanning the room for his discarded book. “I’m not much of a performer, actually. I mean, I like to play and sing sometimes, but...but mostly…” His voice trailed off as he leaned back, believing he’d spotted his textbook – only to be disappointed when he blinked and it disappeared. He frowned and returned his attention to the blonde whose gaze hadn’t left him once since they’d gotten off the stage, asking, “Sorry, where was I?”

Roger smirked, leaning against the bar. “You were in the middle of giving me some lame excuse as to why you’re not part of this label.”

The taller of the two chuckled nervously, bringing a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing his skin now beaded with sweat. “Right, right. Erm, I just...it’s not my thing. My mum made me do this, you know, come here and socialize with people with similar interests and whatnot. I think it’s bullocks, but what do I know?”

“You seem like a smart guy. I’m sure you know lots,” the blonde retorted, waving the bartender over and nonchalantly ordering the two of them some champagne. Brian tried to hide the small grin that wanted to appear on his lips, but when the task became too difficult and time was running out, his opted to place his hand over his mouth, earning a raised eyebrow from Roger. The younger man decided not to say anything, choosing instead to remark, “But I bet you didn’t know that EMI’s looking for studio musicians, or that you’d be perfect for it, Mr. I’m-Not-A-Performer.”

Brian blushed at the cheeky blonde’s comment. “That’s very kind of you, Roger, but I can’t even begin to compare with the likes of you. You’ve probably been performing for years, and all I’ve ever done was one lousy gig at a pub where I fainted before I even got on stage.”

Roger’s lip perked up at the impossible thought of the tall man before him passing out in some back hallway. “I hope you’re joking.”

“I wish I were!” he laughed, his focus on the blonde shifting to the bartender as he placed two chutes down on the bar. Roger acquired both of them and began to walk away, Brian hesitating to follow after him. It was only when the drummer looked back over his shoulder to check that his new friend was behind him that the guitarist jumped forward, joining the former outside where a few stragglers had wandered off to, wanting to get a better view of the fireworks that were due to go off at any moment.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Roger blurted out, continuing their conversation and offering one of the drinks to Brian while keeping his attention directed towards the city glowing beneath and around them. The curly-haired man reluctantly accepted the drink, swirling it around in the chute as the blonde said, “I remember the first time I performed. I was about seven years old, and my friends and I had this little band. I don’t remember what we called ourselves, but I do remember them making me play the ukulele. Surely, you can imagine how _that_ went.”

“What’s wrong with playing ukulele?” the taller of the two wondered aloud, his question going unanswered as the crowd behind them began to count down from ten – indicating the soon-to-be arrival of the new year.

“ _Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...Happy New Year!”_

Fireworks shot up into the dark sky, leaving spiraling trails of sparks as they rose higher and higher, reaching their climax and bursting into a colorful shower that illuminated all of London. The abrupt explosions rang in everyone’s ears, mixed with the roaring sound of cheerful exclamations, horns, squawkers, and blowouts coming from inside the record label. The sudden change in atmosphere had Brian clutching tightly onto his drink with wide, innocent eyes, surveying the bustling room behind him and witnessing couples pair up to share their first New Year’s kisses and friends sharing drinks under the cascading streamers and confetti.

The clink of another glass against his startled him, a few drops of champagne splashing on the ground as Brian’s attention was drawn back to the blonde who smiled and downed his champagne in one, swift sip. Brian feigned a grin and tried to do the same, but he only finished half of it before having to stop. His cheeks blushed a bright red as he met Roger’s amused gaze, the embarrassment causing him to shout, “You know, I should probably find my mom and wish her a Happy New Year’s!”

The drummer nodded his head in understanding, replying just as loudly, “Yeah, I should too. I mean, not your mom. My mom.” He shook his head, his voice starting to falter the more flustered he became. “I mean, I don’t have a mom. Two dads. Well, a stepdad and his boyfriend. It’s weird. I think my stepdad killed my mom. Well, not really. There hasn’t been any proof of it, but it’s just feeling I have, you know?”

A grin broke out onto Brian’s face, relieved to see that he wasn’t the only flawed one. “Happy New Year’s, Rog.”

The taller man tilted his half-empty drink towards the blonde in salutation and began to walk away when Roger’s voice froze him in his tracks, “Hey, don’t be a stranger, stranger!” Brian smirked and, keeping his back to the blonde so he didn’t see the intensifying rouge on his face, disappeared into the crowd.

*****

Sporting a pair of dark sunglasses and a wrinkled, half-buttoned, haphazardly thrown-on dress shirt, Roger trudged through the halls of EMI. The clock on the wall’s hands sat at the one and four, indicating that the blonde was _very_ late for the mandatory meeting his stepdad had called. The boy vaguely remembered his father reminding him at some indiscernible time the night prior of the important event, but his mind was in too drunk a haze to properly process what was being said to him. However, he did manage to nod his head, the unconscious gesture serving as sufficient acknowledgement that the manager’s reminder hadn’t gone unheard.

Roger struggled to light the cigarette he had pinched between his fingers, hitting the spark wheel over and over again before someone popped out from around the corner he was about to turn and accomplished the impossible task for him. The blonde lowered his sunglasses to get a better look at his savior, his bloodshot eyes falling on the one person he wasn’t terrified to see.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Roger Taylor,” the girl with dark hair and big, brown eyes greeted, her lips curling up into a sly grin.

“Only if you rat me out, Dominique,” he teased, pulling the girl in and planting a sloppy kiss on her forehead. She laughed and playfully pushed the drummer away from her, the pair starting down the hallway where Mary and Debbie, two of Roger’s three backup singers – the third being Dominique – were waiting outside the conference room.

“Roger!” Debbie squealed, shooting up from the bench she was perched on and flinging herself at the blonde who lost his footing and stumbled back into the wall. “Happy New Year!”

He chuckled, the youngest of the three singers reluctantly detaching herself from him. “Happy New Year to you too, babe.”

“Are you ready to tell John your plans for the album, Rog?” Mary chimed in, taking a casual drag from her own cigarette and blowing the smoke out to the side as a smile crawled onto her face.

The blonde let out a nervous laugh, running his free hand through his hair. “Oh, you know I am.” He wasn’t, despite the fact that he’d been working on the damn thing for months, spending countless, sleepless nights writing songs that, by the time the sun peeked over the horizon to hang high in the sky, wound up in either the trash bin or the front lawn.

Just then, turning the corner with an air that demanded everyone’s undivided attention, Freddie Mercury made his grand entrance. He held his head high and was dressed more ostentatiously than normal, sporting a large fur coat that blew in the nonexistent breeze, a pair of rose-colored, star-shaped sunglasses, and pants so tight his crotch entered the hallway before he did.

“Look, the killer queen returned from her vacation in Bali," Dominique sniggered under her breath, smirking as the flamboyant singer strutted by, paying no attention to the group he passed through – for Roger wasn't the _only_ one who hadn't been bestowed with the gift of punctuality.

“ _I_ heard he spent the holidays like he always does," Mary tacked on, her eyes following the dark-haired man.

“Yeah, and how’s that?” Debbie wondered, forgetting to keep her voice lowered like the others.

“By raiding thrift stores, of course!" Roger finally joined in, earning a hearty round of laughter from – as he often referred to them as – "his girls” and a glare from the singer before he disappeared into the conference room.

"How funny," Chrissie, one of the record label's established studio musicians who had been sitting beside Mary, snarled, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes at the group's childish antics. She couldn't believe she'd worked alongside such simpletons for years and had been waiting for someone new to join the team and give her faith in the future of the music industry. Little did she know that her prayer would soon be answered by a lanky, awkward, curly-haired boy who had just finished his tour of the studios with his stepmother.

"Mom, I don't feel well," he whispered into Anita's ear.

"Oh stop," she chided in a motherly tone, "You're probably just nervous, but you've got nothing to worry about! You'll do great, you always do, and Mr. Grainge assured me you're in the best of hands."

"Yes, we're very excited to have you here, Mr. May," the company chairman smiled, placing a comforting hand on the tense boy's upper arm. Brian feigned a grin in response, still feeling uneasy about the transition. He was quite familiar with moving from place to place, seeing as Anita's career belonged to the world of theater, taking her wherever she was needed and dragging Brian along for the ride. However, having landed a semi-permanent role in a production in London, this was the first time the pair had the chance to settle down and invest some time into Brian's passions for once – regardless of whether he wanted to or not.

"I'm just worried about having another pub incident," the guitarist confessed.

"You'll be fine, Bri," Anita cooed, getting on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on her stepson's cheek. "Call me when you're ready to be picked up, okay?"

A deep shade of red flushed Brian's face, the actress taking the change in expression as affirmation he had heard her and waving her boy goodbye, leaving him in the "good hands" of Mr. Grainge, who led the embarrassed guitarist to the conference room where he intended to introduce him to a few of the groups he'd be working with. Thankfully, the meeting had already seemed in full swing by the time they got there, all the musicians situated at the large, oblong table – including Freddie's partner in crime, John, or as everyone but the singer referred to him as, Deaky; Tim, another studio musician; and Veronica, assistant to Jim Beach, another music manager at EMI, specifically the one leading this informational session. However, their arrival surely didn’t go unnoticed, the click of the door alerting everyone to their presence and silencing the lively conversation that previously filled the air.

Brian felt every pair of eyes in that room on him, but the only one he focused on were the baby blues belonging to the blonde he’d been thrown at the night of New Year’s Eve, just as wide and astonished as his. The room quickly grew warm, and it was only when a hand fell down on his shoulder that he snapped out of the trance Roger’s eyes had cast him into.

“Good luck,” Mr. Grainge whispered in his ear, giving him an encouraging shake before abandoning his side and closing the door behind him as he left. The guitarist stood as still as a statue, surveying the tense room that appeared frozen in time.

“You must be Brian May,” Jim finally spoke up, standing at the head of the table across from the new studio musician. “Welcome to EMI. My name’s Jim Beach, but you can call me Miami.” The older man’s attention shifted over to Freddie, flashing the singer a snide grin that was easily requited before returning his attention to Brian and continuing, “You came just in time to hear about our plans for this year. Please, take a seat.” His hand extended outward, gesturing to the open seat in between Chrissie and Tim.

The guitarist nodded his head and slid into the comfortable chair, trying to relax underneath the surveillance of the other musicians but failing to do so. As Jim Beach, or Miami, went on to discuss what prospective projects were available to the musicians in the room, most everyone drifted off into their own worlds – carrying on hushed conversations with the people next to them, jotting down song ideas in the notepads they’d smuggled in, or dozing off, only to startle themselves awake and start the process all over again minutes, sometimes even seconds, later.

If anyone had been listening – which only Freddie and John seemed to be, for Miami’s announcements almost always pertained to their agenda and no one else’s – the musicians would’ve heard about the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that had been presented to them: the chance to open for Mott The Hoople on their tour of America. It was an accomplishment many of the label’s musicians strove for, attaining a spot on a tour, but with the additional conversation of Roger’s album and the ongoing search for more studio musicians, the opportunity was brushed underneath the table.

It was only when Miami slammed his hands down that he gained everyone’s undivided attention, informing them that, “And just in case you forgot, tonight is EMI’s annual beginning-of-the-year sweep, and you’re all required to stay and help.”

A wave of objections washed over the conference table, the young musicians spewing out reason after reason as to how unfair their involuntary obligation was. They complained about how it cut into their valuable rehearsal time, whined about how they have inspiration to find, and groaned that their precious talents shouldn’t be wasted on cleaning out dusty drawers and checking that all the instruments and equipment hadn’t been stolen and were in good, working condition. Miami’s call was final, though, and he expected to see them all there – _all_ of them.

Just then, in the midst of the drone of the disgruntled musicians’ mumbling protest, Debbie raised her hand high. Miami let out an aggravated breath and, with his deep, calming voice, asked, “Yes, Debbie?”

She dropped her hand to the table and intertwined her fingers, flashing the manager her most flattering grin and replying, “So, how was your vacation, Miami?”

Everyone at the table directed a strange look her way, the only man standing rolling his eyes and dismissing the group from the meeting, muttering under his breath as he slipped out of the room that he needed a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

It didn’t take long for the others to take Miami’s lead, Roger pushing his way around his girls and his competition to catch Brian before he could get far. Luckily, the curly-haired man had similar intentions and was waiting right outside the door, back pressed against the wall and eyes flickering between every person that passed through the threshold in hopes of catching a glimpse of the blonde. However, when he did, the words he wanted to say got caught in his throat and it became Roger’s responsibility to speak first, turning around and meeting Brian’s expectant gaze.

“Hey!” he greeted, unable to hold back the grin that appeared on his lips and instantly eased the tense guitarist’s nerves.

“I don’t...”

“Believe it,” Roger finished his sentence, shortening the distance between them.

Brian chuckled. “Well, me—”

“Either.” The blonde folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head in disbelief. “What are you doing here? I thought we performers _intimidated_ you too much.”

The taller of the two blushed at the shorter one’s mocking comment, wanting to but struggling to find an equally teasing reply. All he could come up with was the honest answer of, “Well, you see, I kind of was already a studio musician here when we first met.”

Roger’s clicked his tongue, the corners of his lips perking upward into an amused smirk. “Oh, were you, now?”

“Y-Yeah,” Brian stammered, embarrassed for having lied to the blonde when—looking back—he had no reason to. “I don’t...I don’t know why I didn’t just tell you.”

“Probably because you love it when people tell you how good you are,” he continued to tease, his smirk growing with the blush rising in Brian’s cheeks.

“No, erm, quite the opposite, actually—”

“Oh, stop it with the modesty,” Roger jested, playfully punching the guitarist in the arm and saying, “We’re all self-absorbed, conceited arseholes here. Especially this guy.” His final three words coincided with the emergence of Freddie from the conference room, the dark-haired man stopping in his tracks and eyeing the blonde from head to toe.

“What about me, darling?” he insisted on knowing, joining Roger’s side and glaring at the tall man standing before them, forgetting his initial question and replacing it with a, “Who’s this?” as if he hadn’t remembered him interrupting their meeting.

“This is Brian,” the blonde introduced him, “He’s one of our new studio musicians.”

Freddie hummed and folded his arms over his chest, snarling, “Well how nice it is of you to find time in your so _busy_ schedule to pity him a welcome. Were you going to sign up for the chance to be Mott the Hoople’s opening act too?” He extracted a pink sparkly pen from the inside breast pocket of his fur coat and scribbled down his name on the sheet tacked to the bulletin board outside the conference room—his signature consuming nearly half the page. “John and I have toured with a lot of great artists, but we always encourage others to try out because, well, there are a lot of other things we’ll need help with...like lugging around our wardrobes and testing our mics and—”

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Brian replied, shaking his head, “I just, I just was looking at what other opportunities the studio has to offer because there’s just...” his eyes wandered to the board covered in flyers, “...so much to do.” He took a quick look back at Roger—hoping he would save him from the sinking ship of a conversation he found himself in but seeing that his attention had been stolen by the cigarette he was working to light—before glancing back at Freddie and commenting with a deceptively friendly grin, “Nice penmanship.”

With his compliment that came off rather insincere, the guitarist walked away—Freddie’s gaze following him before he snapped back into reality and took the open place beside Roger. The blonde brought the ignited white stick to his lips and took in a deep breath, finally looking up to disappointedly watch his new friend disappear around the corner at the opposite end of the hallway.

“So, Roger,” Freddie remarked, resting his arm atop the blonde’s shoulder and grinning, “I missed you over break. Who’d you do?”

“What?”

“Any good shags you want to tell me about? Girls? _Guys?_ ”

The blonde gave the singer a strange look and took another slow drag from his cigarette, blowing out the smoke he’d been holding in to the side and answering, “Neither, Fred. I was in the studio with John the whole time.”

“Ahh, right, your album,” the dark-haired man replied, plucking the white stick out of Roger’s grasp and bringing it up to his own lips. “When’s that due to drop?” he entertained, inhaling the nicotine and exhaling it slowly.

The drummer snatched his cigarette back, grumbling, “I don’t know. Two weeks, maybe?”

Freddie scoffed in admiration, pulling the pair closer together and praising him for his dedication. “You’re just like me!” he gushed, earning an awkward chuckle from the blonde whose gaze flickered over to Dominique, wordlessly pleading for her to notice and come rescue him. Before she could sense his telepathic cries for help through her conversation with Debbie, Freddie drew Roger’s attention back by trailing a sensual finger down his chest. “I hope you’ll come to see John and me on tour, Rog. Promise?”

“S-Sure,” the blonde stammered, hoping that his no-hearted agreement would send the clingy singer on his way.

Freddie squealed in delight and finally let go of the blonde, bidding him farewell with a cheerful, “Toodles!” before strutting down the hallway.

“Toodles,” Roger repeated smugly under his breath, watching as Dominique wrapped up her talk with the other blonde and joined the drummer who stood in the center of the hall with a scowl on his face. The dark-haired French girl smirked and hooked her arm with the blonde’s, leading him down the hallway.

“So, let me guess,” she started teasingly, “Freddie talked you into being his personal assistant for when he and John tour with Mott the Hoople.”

Roger laughed. “He couldn’t handle me as his personal assistant.”

Dominique allowed herself an agreeing smile before biting her lip and looking over at her friend with a more serious expression. “You know you couldn’t audition even if you wanted to, Rog. John Reid would throw a fit, and besides, do you think Mitch Mitchell and Jon Bonham auditioned to be some other band’s opening act?” Before the drummer could chime in, his backup singer answered her own question with a stern, “No, they got asked. You need to focus on your album.”

“Don’t you think it’d be good experience, though?”

Dominique chuckled. “If you consider waiting on the princess hand and foot as good experience, sure.”

Roger’s cheeks turned a faint shade of red, and he brought his free hand to the back of his neck nervously. “I know, I just...I thought it’d be a good laugh.” The two walked down the hall a little bit further in silence before the blonde mumbled, “Freddie’s kinda cute, too.”

“Yeah, and so is your dad, but you don’t fuck him.”

*****

While Roger sat in the mixing booth by himself, toying with various knobs and faders and contemplating about the audition for Mott the Hoople’s tour, Freddie took it upon himself to get familiar with EMI’s newest family member. Finding Brian in one of the session rooms, admiring the extensive collection of guitars sitting in a row of stands while one of the studio’s techs worked on tuning one of the twelve strings by ear, he blurted out, “So it seems like you knew Roger.”

The curly-haired newcomer, whose startled hand landed on his chest that beat rapidly out of fear, let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, no, he was just telling me about—”

The dark-haired man laughed, cutting the guitarist short and sauntering across the room—his footsteps that would’ve normally bounced off the walls being absorbed by the foam panels hung like pictures. “Well, he usually doesn’t interact with the studio musicians, especially new ones.”

Brian raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Uh, why not?”

“Well, it’s pretty much recording sessions 24/7 with him,” Freddie answered, dragging a careless finger across the headstocks of all the guitars until he reached Brian, the taller man’s focus attracted to the tech who struggled to match one of the strings to its designated note. His solution was to tune it down, feeling as though the string’s note was sharp, but Brian knew the problem was that the note was actually flat and, in turn, needed to be tuned up.

“Hey, it’s supposed to—”

“Are you talking to me?” the tech asked.

“I-I’m sorry,” Brian apologized, his cheeks growing red in embarrassment, “I was just...uh...shouldn’t you be tuning the string up?”

The tech, who had been employed at EMI for some time now, chuckled. “I doubt it.” Despite his condescending response, he took the guitarist’s advice and turned the tuning key to the left, plucking the bottom of the string with his other hand and looking down at the electronic tuner sitting on the amp beside him—his eyebrows raising in surprise. “I stand corrected.” He glanced up at Brian and smiled. “Thanks, new guy.”

Freddie scoffed and stormed out of the room, bursting into one of the bathrooms where Deaky was zipping up his pants, turning away from the flushing urinal and nearly falling back into it as he noticed his musical partner standing before him. “Jesus, Fred—”

“I saw Roger looking at our audition list.”

“And?” the long-haired, lanky bassist replied, pushing past him to the sinks.

“And he was hanging out with that new guy, Mr. I’m-Gonna-Steal-Your-Man-With-My-Perfect-Jawline-Bri!”

Deaky laughed and met his friend’s gaze through the mirror, scrubbing his hands underneath the steady stream of warm water. “I’m pretty sure his name’s just Brian, Freddie.”

“God, _John_ , I know. Ever heard of a nickname?”

“Every day I’m here,” he answered truthfully, Freddie’s eyes narrowing and his hands falling on his hips as he watched him shake his wet hands off and grab a paper towel from the dispenser. The singer waited impatiently as the bassist meticulously dried his hands, crumpling the disposable towel in his palms and proceeding to toss it into the trash like it was a basketball and the trashcan was a hoop. “Hey!” he exclaimed, looking to Freddie for retribution but only receiving a petty eyeroll. Deaky sighed and crossed him arms, finally addressing his friend’s concern with forced interest, “What’s so bad about Roger hanging out with the new guy?”

“The two of them were looking at the list together, John!” he cried, throwing his hands out to the sides for dramatic emphasis. The frizzy-haired bassist shrugged his shoulders, not seeing the issue in the matter. Freddie groaned in frustration and explained, “There’s just something off about the new guy, I know there is.” He pouted his lips at Deaky’s lack of investment and placed his hands back on his hips, wondering out loud, “Where did he say he was from again?”

“How am I supposed to know, Fred? I’ve interacted with him just as much as you have. Besides, how do you know he’s even interested in the tour?”

Freddie waved a dismissive hand in his friend’s direction. “I don’t, but I know we needn’t concern ourselves with amateurs, and—” His voice trailed off, the corner of his lip twisting upward into a devious smirk as he came up with the most perfect idea. Deaky’s eyes widened in fearful anticipation of whatever the dark-haired singer had in mind, and luckily—or unluckily—the singer finished his sentence with a relatively harmless, “—it wouldn’t hurt to make sure he had opportunities that are...well, more appropriate for him. After all, he _loves_ tuning guitars.”

Deaky furrowed his brows at Freddie’s last remark, robbed of the chance to ask the singer what he meant by his theatrical exit—twirling around, the fur coat spinning outward and scraping the bassist’s legs, and slipping out of the bathroom. He strutted down the halls with a newfound sense of purpose, head held high with determination to ensure that Brian wouldn’t get in the way of his plans to join Mott the Hoople on their tour, nor would get the chance to steal his man.


	4. Chapter 4

“Come on, everyone!” Miami called out as he wandered around the studio many of the musicians found themselves in that night for the beginning-of-the-year sweep, hands clasped behind his back and his watchful eyes scanning the room for slackers. “This place isn’t going to clean itself!”

“God, if he was my manager, I think I’d blow my brains out,” Roger grumbled under his breath as he lazily wiped one of the sound booth’s windows with a rag that had long gone dry. “‘This place isn’t going to clean itself,’” he mocked the manager, “Who would’ve thought?”

Dominique, who was sitting on the ground, given the task of picking up all the discarded cigarette butts but instead choosing to smoke a blunt of her own, laughed. “You know, in the time you took to make fun of him, you could’ve finished cleaning that window and moved onto the next one.”

The blonde looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “You know, in the time you took to scold me about making fun of him, you could’ve cleaned up all those cigarette butts and moved onto your next task.”

She took a long drag and let it out slowly, the corners of her pursed lips curling upward as she extended the cigarette up to him. “And miss out on killing time with the biggest procrastinator in the world?”

He smirked and snatched the white stick out of her grasp, bringing it up to his own lips and sinking down to her level.

Meanwhile, out in the live room, Chrissie’s heels clicked across the wooden floors as she ran over to Brian—who was preoccupied with reorganizing the collection of sheet music that appeared to not have been touched in over twenty years—and exclaimed, “The answer is yes!”

The curly-haired guitarist jumped, dropping the stack of papers he’d been so meticulously ordering in his hands and meeting the excited studio musician’s eager gaze with furrowed brows. “I’m sorry?”

“Tim and I have been looking for a guitarist to join us on sessions,” she explained, an excited grin on her face, “We have one next week, actually, and there’s definitely a spot for you if you’re interested.”

Brian swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. “W-Who told you I wanted to be a session player?”

The session singer crossed her arms. “Didn’t you ask around about it?” He feverishly shook his head no, faltering the girl’s smile. “Oh, well, we’d still love to have you. Tim and I are here almost every day, but we mostly just help each other out with songs we’re working on, you know, when we’re not called in for a gig.” She bit her lip and looked at him with pleading eyes. “I really hope you’ll consider, Brian.”

“I-I don’t know, Chrissie. I’m still trying to get used to everything and—"

“What a perfect way to get acquainted!” Freddie agreed, joining the pair and dropping an arm on Chrissie’s shoulder. He flashed Brian and her a bright smile, showing off his big, pearly whites, and said, “Talking with the puppeteers pulling us singers’ strings.” The session musician tensed when he drew her in for a near bone-crushing side hug. “What a generous offer, Chrissie. He’d be a fool not to take it.”

She chuckled nervously. “Yeah, he...he would be.”

In another recording studio, on a different floor, John Reid paced anxiously back and forth in the control room, chewing on his nail as he spoke to himself under his breath. “We’ve got two weeks before the executives come in and want to hear what Roger’s got.” His worried eyes shot over to the two girls sitting on the couch—Debbie applying another layer of lipstick to her already dark red lips and Mary leafing through an old edition of _British Vogue_. “Where is he? And where’s Dominique?”

The two girls ignored him, Debbie too enraptured with her own reflection and Mary the cover shoot with Margaux Hemingway. Clenching his jaw, he snatched the compact mirror and magazine out of their grasps and tossed them to the sides, repeating his question with a raised voice, “Where are Roger and Dominique?”

“They’re helping out with Miami’s beginning-of-the-year sweep,” Debbie answered with the roll of her eyes, “Geez, no need to throw a fit.”

“Helping out with Miami’s...” the manager began to echo before storming out, taking the stairs down to the next level and bursting into the studio Miami had hoarded the young musicians in. “Where’s my boy, Jim?” he boomed. Before the other manager could gather the wits to answer, Reid spotted the blonde and his dark-haired companion together in the same place they started, now consumed by a thick haze that masked the dopey grins plastered on their faces. “What the heck are those two doing in a closet?”

“It’s called cleaning up after themselves, Reid,” Miami answered bitterly, folding his arms over his chest. “And it’s a sound booth, not a closet.”

Reid scoffed and charged for the small room, ripping the door open and yanking the two musicians out. “Go upstairs,” he ordered, pushing Roger and Dominique towards the studio doors. The pair stumbled out with reddened cheeks and eyes, but not before Reid snatched the blunt from the blonde’s hand, threw it on the ground, and stomped it out with his foot, earning a disappointed groan from the other manager.

“Deaky just mopped that.” Miami frowned.

“You,” Reid snapped, disregarding his colleague’s comment and pointing his finger in his direction, curling it repeatedly, “Come with me.”

*****

“This better be important,” Mr. Grainge mumbled tiredly as he situated himself at his desk, the two managers occupying the seats before him. The chairman’s appearance was laughable—a suit jacket tossed over a t-shirt above a pair of joggers—but that late at night, it didn’t bother either of them.

“Look, Lucien,” John Reid spoke up, knowing how precious both his and Mr. Grainge’s time was and wasting neither, “If my team has to help Jim with his stupid Spring cleaning—which we all know is really just a cover for free labor—they can do it during the day, not during our booked studio time.”

Miami scoffed. “If it were any of your other clients, John, would you be so concerned?”

Roger’s stepfather and manager slowly shifted his attention from the chairman to the speaker, replying tersely, “I am two weeks away from getting my boy a record deal, Jim—”

“And I’m busy auditioning musicians to tour with Mott The Hoople!” the dark-haired man countered, folding his arms over his chest, “You know, this studio doesn’t just revolve around your boy, John. There are other musicians here too, working ten times harder than Roger is to put a few mediocre songs together and slap a title on it.”

“It’s called an album, Jim, an album!” Reid snapped, so riled up that he ignored the insults Miami had directed at the drummer and nearly jumped out of his seat. He let out a deep sigh and brought a frustrated hand to his forehead in an attempt to calm himself down. An awkward silence fell over the trio, disrupted only by the creaking of Mr. Grainge’s chair as he sat forward and clasped his hands together atop his desk.

“It baffles me why you two still act like this,” the chairman started, looking at the two managers who pettily mirrored each other with their arms folded over their chests, their legs crossed, and their heads turned in opposite directions. “We are one studio, one company with the same goal—to show the world how talented we are. Can we not agree on that?”

John Reid and Miami slowly met one another’s gazes, secretly hoping that the other would blink first and lose the unspoken, unofficial stare contest they’d engaged one another in. It wasn’t until Mr. Grainge cleared his throat that the two men were reminded of the question at hand, eliciting forced, ingenuine affirmatives from each of them. “Great,” the chairman muttered as he rose up from his desk and demanded the managers’ attention, “Glad we could work this out. Now, please, don’t call me again unless there’s a fire or someone got murdered. Okay?”

“Yes, Mr. Grainge,” both men murmured, rolling their eyes after he adjusted his suit jacket and walked past them, revealing the last, most defining feature of his thrown-together outfit—the pair of women’s slippers he’d stepped into while rushing out of the house. However, not even the ridiculous footwear could lessen the tension that consumed the office’s atmosphere, intensified by the slamming of the door on the chairman’s way out.

“I told you calling him wouldn’t do anything,” Miami grumbled under his breath, picking at a loose thread on his tie. Reid huffed in disappointment and followed Mr. Grainge’s lead in leaving, making his way to the studio where Roger and the girls were waiting for him, the gossip that filled the air concerning what would happen when John returned ceasing to exist as the door flew open and, standing in the doorway, was none other than the man of the moment, looking more upset than ever.

“Look, John, I—” Roger began to explain, standing up from his seat on the couch in the control room. However, before he could finish his sentence, the manager raised his hand and silenced and sat the boy back down without saying a word. Debbie smirked at the submissive blonde, her lips another shade darker.

Reid drew in a deep breath and surveyed the four musicians before him, squeezed together on the small piece of furniture—the two on the outside adorned with shame while the pair on the inside sat patiently, knowing they were safe from their manager’s impending admonishment. He placed his hands on his hips, intimidating the guilty party with the slow, calculated tap of his foot. Finally, after a long pause, he spun away from the group and began to pace back and forth, saying in a low voice, “Roger, girls, this record deal means everything to us, and we’re not the only ones fighting for it, but you know what we are?”

“In trouble?” Mary guessed indifferently, flicking through the magazine she’d picked up from where it had been rudely discarded earlier.

“No,” John replied condescendingly, snatching the periodical out of the girl’s hands and eliciting a gasp from her, “ _We_ are going to get that record deal.” He threw the magazine to the corner of the room again and scanned the wide eyes following his every move. “It’s time we start taking this seriously, which we should have done months ago, but clearly we had other priorities.” He looked directly at the blonde who instantly averted his gaze to the side. “Listen carefully, everyone, because I’m not going to say this again. Roger Taylor isn’t Roger Taylor without each and every one of you, but Roger Taylor can’t exist unless all of you give this album—and every album after that—your full, undivided attention. Are we clear?”

Just like in Mr. Grainge’s office, a mumbled, unconvincing chorus of “Yes, John,” and “Yes, Mr. Reid,” filled the control room.

“Good, now let’s get to work,” he ordered, clapping his hands together and sending the four musicians out into the live room. The manager heaved a sigh as he spun around and waltzed over to the control board, watching with narrowed eyes and crossed arms as his stepson and the girls got into place—the blonde behind his drum kit and the other three behind their mics, like it should be.

Down a couple floors, Miami dismissed the remaining musicians who saw his sweep to fruition, thanking them for their help. As the cohort trickled out of the building, headed their separate ways, Chrissie pushed through the crowd to catch up with Brian, startling the tall, curly-haired guitarist when she called out, “Hey!” and grabbed him by the arm.

“H-Hey,” he stammered, the corner of his lips twitching upward into a grin.

“I just wanted to say sorry about earlier,” the studio singer apologized, her cheeks turning a faint shade of red, masked by the darkness that hung peacefully over London. “It’s just that, we’ve never had a guitarist to work with before, which is weird when you think about it, but you...you could change that!”

Brian chuckled nervously. “I don’t know, Chrissie. I’m really just trying to focus on my studies right now and help my mum get settled down. Maybe we can revisit the possibility over the summer?” Before Chrissie could attempt to persuade him otherwise, he changed the subject by rattling off, “Hey, what do you know about Roger?”

“Roger?” she repeated, “As in Roger Taylor?” The guitarist nodded his head, earning a giggle from the studio musician who pulled the two sides of her jacket closer—a sharp breeze cutting through the night. “You’d be better off asking one of his girls about him. They understand him like no one else. It’s like they exist in an alternate universe from us or something.”

“Well, have you tried to get to know him?” Brian proposed, a car horn disturbing the quiet of the night and attracting the pair’s attention. Parked down the street, leaning out the driver’s side window and waving theatrically for her stepson to hurry up, was Anita.

Chrissie smirked at the embarrassing spectacle, leaning against the blushing guitarist and telling him, “You’ll see what I mean tomorrow.” Her eyes flickered up to meet his apprehensive gaze, her amused smirk evolving into a charming smile as she stepped away from him and shoved her cold hands into her coat pockets. “Tim and I would love to hang out and get to know you, Brian, and I promise we won’t badger you about joining us as a studio musician. What do you say?”

He sighed, his stepmother honking the horn once again. “I-I’ll think about it, Chrissie.”

“That’s all I ask,” she murmured, squeezing the guitarist’s upper arm, “See you tomorrow, Bri.” The singer spun around and headed in the opposite direction, a hopeful bounce to her step as she disappeared into the night, leaving Brian with a decision to make—one that, if he followed his instincts and decided against, would shatter the entire social structure that EMI thrived on.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun had just started to rise by the time John Reid called it a wrap with Roger and the girls. The backup singers were visibly exhausted as they trudged out of the deserted record label—soon to be filled again with a hundred busy bodies trying to make hopeful musicians dreams come true. Lingering behind were the manager and his stepson, the latter just as drained as the girls but denied the fatigue as his stepfather pressed the lift’s ground floor button and used the isolation as an opportunity to address what had happened earlier that evening.

“I still don’t understand how on earth you got roped into helping Miami with his sweep,” John muttered under his breath, earning a nervous side-eye glance from the boy beside him. “I mean, for the love of god, I know the man will do everything he can to get under my skin, but he crossed a line tonight.”

“He didn’t give us a choice, Dad,” Roger explained, heaving a sigh and crossing his arms uncomfortably—the confined space doing him no favors. “He said it was required that we all show up.”

“And what would’ve happened if you didn’t?” the manager snapped, shooting a darted look in the blonde’s direction. “He’d take away your studio time? Wouldn’t let you audition for that dumb band’s bloody opening act?”

Roger turned his head to the side, attempting to mask the rouge that crept up in his cheeks—ashamed that those hypothetical consequences played a large role in his willingness to follow Miami’s instructions. Sure, he had only been made aware of the touring opportunity that day, but he’d had hours to sit with the idea, and the more he thought about it, the more he considered it as an actual possibility. After all, if he was away on tour, the label couldn’t expect him to produce an album—an album he had yet to complete. He figured that some time off, away from his controlling stepfather and the pressures placed on him by the studio, would do him some good, maybe even inspire him to finish the project his manager was losing hair over.

Reid scoffed, shaking his head. “I’d like to see him try to keep you out of the studio. Over my dead body, he will.”

“What about auditions?” the blonde blurted out, his eyes flickering to meet his stepfather’s.

“What about them?” he asked, brows knitted together in confusion.

Roger bit his lip, the temperature in the lift rising as the four walls closed in on him. Perhaps it was a delirious episode spurred by exhaustion, or the urgency brought about by the descending numbers above the button panel, but he felt compelled to wonder, “Have you ever wanted to try something new, but were too afraid of what others might think?”

John rested his hands on his hips, eyes wandering around the box he and his stepson found themselves in and toe tapping against the floor, trying to decipher what Roger meant by his ambiguous question. “Are you talking about changing your sound? Because you don’t need to do that. You barely have a sound as it is.”

“No, Dad, that’s not...” The blonde’s voice trailed off as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He didn’t know how to put into words what he wanted to say—words that would allow him to convey his developed interests to his stepfather without getting berated for even _thinking_ about anything other than his album. “I’m just saying, what if there was something else that I wanted to do?”

The manager laughed. “Roger, you don’t have the luxury of doing something else right now. In two weeks, we have executives coming in to hear your album, and you haven’t finished a single song. Do you understand how important this is for you? Your entire career depends on this album!”

“I know it does,” Roger murmured, hanging his head and locking his gaze on his feet.

“Well, maybe you should start acting like it,” the manager suggested harshly, the lift coming to a stop and the doors sliding apart. Reid adjusted his suit jacket and stepped out, Roger trudging after him but staying three steps behind. They kept the distance between them the entire ride home, walking through the doors to be greeted by Elton—his first kiss to John met with ignorant dismissal, the manager slipping past his husband and heading upstairs without saying a word, and the second to Roger met with a subtle, appreciative grin.

Elton ruffled the blonde’s hair. “Late night?”

“Yeah,” the drummer answered, unable to hide the dejection in his voice as he peeled away from the stepparent who was the least related to him but cared about him the most. He wandered into the kitchen and ripped open the refrigerator, sifting through the shelves in search of a late-night drink. Elton trailed in after him, sitting down at the island and watching as Roger plucked a bottle of vodka out from the icebox and turned around, announcing dismally, “But I’m nowhere near finishing my album.”

“You’ll get it done, Rog,” the singer assured him.

“What if I don’t want to?” Roger muttered, joining his stepfather at the counter and twisting the cap off the bottle. “I mean, I _do_ want to finish it, but...I can’t do it like this, not with him breathing down my neck every second of every day.” He waved a lazy hand in the direction of the stairs, the gesture indicating that it was John he was talking about, before taking a swig of the clear, inebriating liquid.

Elton placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave him a slight shake. “Everything will work itself out, darling. I know it will.”

*****

The following morning, John was surprised to find Roger up and ready to go before him. Under the manager’s suspicious eye as he poured himself a cup of coffee, the overly energetic blonde explained that he’d stayed up all night planning. When asked for what, he answered with a charming smile, “A surprise.” The only reason John didn’t further interrogate the boy and his strange behavior was because he was too tired to—experiencing a similar, yet less productive sleepless night.

Roger did have a plan that day, but it had nothing to do with the album whose deadline was slowly creeping up. He was so nervous about his plan that he almost let the cat out of the bag while Dominique unknowingly helped him execute it.

“I still don’t know why you asked me to do this,” she mumbled as she swept mascara over his naturally long eyelashes, doing her best not to poke him in the eye. “You should be working on your album.”

“I worked on it all night,” he lied, watching as his right-hand woman took a step back to assess her work. With a frustrated sigh, she switched out the mascara for lipstick and pursed her lips out at Roger—indicating that he should do the same. Before complying with her demand, he tacked on, “Besides, today John booked me a photo shoot for the cover...and he said he wants no one to recognize me.”

Dominique chuckled. “Oh, did he now?” she teased, dragging the deep shade of magenta across his lips with a smirk.

Roger only hummed in response, jumping down from the bathroom counter as soon as the backup singer capped the cosmetic and turning around to take a quick look at himself. With the wig, makeup, and surprisingly form-fitting clothes he borrowed from her, he could just about fool anyone. He bit his darkened lip to contain the excitement bubbling up inside of him.

The dark-haired French girl crossed her arms over her chest, staring incredulously at the blonde’s reflection and asking, “Are you sure John said he wanted you to look like this for your photo shoot?”

“Yup, weird guy. Gotta run,” he rattled off, planting a sloppy but grateful kiss on Dominique’s cheek before bursting out of the girl’s bathroom and running down the hall. Instinct lured her out into the corridor, catching only a glimpse of the boy she’d helped disguise as a girl as he turned the corner.

“Photo shoot, my arse,” she muttered under her breath, narrowing her eyes and wiping the pigment’s residue from her cheek.

Meanwhile, auditions were just about to begin for Mott The Hoople’s tour, and Freddie was busy getting him and John ready. “Remember what I told you—” he began, adjusting the sparkly jacket on his less-than-amused partner.

Deaky rolled his eyes and finished the sentence for him with the roll of his eyes. “Look like you’re singing and no weird leg stuff.”

Freddie patted him on the cheek. “That’s my darling.” He spun away from the uncomfortable musician and focused his attention on the mirror, admiring its reflection of a slender man adorned in a sequined leotard—its neckline plunging down to his navel and exposing his abundance of thick chest hair. “What do think, John? Too flashy? Do you think they won’t like it?”

Before Deaky could formulate a response, a knock echoed through the dressing room. “Come on in!” Freddie sang, not breaking his stare with himself.

The door creaked open, and Veronica stuck her head in. “Miami’s about to start, you two,” she announced timidly, her attention instantly being drawn to Deaky’s sparkly jacket. Her cheeks burned a bright shade of red, and her eyes trailed up the unnaturally bedazzled chest to meet the kind eyes above it. “Nice jacket.”

“Thanks,” Deaky murmured, glancing down at the garment and smirking, having found a new appreciation for it. The girl flashed him a quick grin before Freddie pushed past her, calling for his friend to follow him. Deaky heaved a sigh and dragged himself out of the room, avoiding eye contact with Miami’s assistant out of embarrassment. It was only when she nervously blurted out, “Break a leg!” that he lifted his head to glance back over his shoulder, the blush that matched hers intensifying.

“Come on, John!” Freddie snapped, grabbing his partner in crime by the arm and yanking him into the hallway he’d turned. The pair hastily made their way down to the spacious live room that Miami had booked for the day to hold auditions.

Typically reserved for orchestras and large ensembles, the live room had vaulted ceilings and plenty of seats, pushed together to free up the back of the room where the musicians were to perform. Amps stacked atop one another lined the wall, and mics were set up as if on an actual sound stage. Crew members scurried about, tweaking the imperfections that would surely drive Miami insane upon his arrival, while those auditioning milled about, some aimlessly and some with a purpose.

Freddie and Deaky fell into the latter category, the man in the leotard searching the room for Miami to butter him up—not that he needed to; he and Deaky were the manager’s favorite duo. They had been ever since they joined the label, Freddie leaving Miami no choice but to warm up to his bold personality and be astonished by his shy companion’s musical talent. They were an unlikely pair indeed, but with the older singer’s voice and songwriting and the younger musician’s instrumental support, they made an amazing team that showed and proved their potential. The other people auditioning didn’t stand a chance.

“Where the hell is he?” Freddie grumbled under his breath, unsuccessful in his endeavors of spotting the manager.

“Maybe he had to go to the bathroom,” Deaky offered apathetically, still a little dazed from the compliment he’d received from Miami’s assistant.

Before the singer could throw a fit, the person in question burst through the live room’s doors with Veronica—attracting everyone’s attention. “Sorry, everyone,” he apologized, his deep, calm, soothing voice silencing everyone at once as he made his way into the room, satchel clattering against his hip and cup of coffee threatening to spill with each hurried step he took. “Please, have a seat,” he insisted, waving his free hand dismissively and sending the fair amount of auditionees toward the crowded chairs.

Miami positioned himself in the center of the provisional stage and scanned the relatively thin sea of the prospective musicians, the corner of his lip twitching upward when his eyes landed on Freddie and Deaky—the former raising a hand and bending his fingers back and forth in a wavelike motion. The manager suppressed the grin the best he could and cleared his throat, beginning, “Welcome everyone. I’d like to start off by saying that I’m thrilled to see so many of you here today. However,” he clapped his hands together, “with that comes an issue with time, and we’ve only got ourselves an hour here, so what I’d like you to do when you come up here is play the first verse and/or chorus of your piece. From that, I’ll let you know whether or not you’ve got what it takes to go on tour with the band...or any band for that matter.” He gestured to his assistant and smiled proudly. “My lovely assistant, Veronica Tetzlaff, will be available to help you improve your set prior to callbacks. Any questions? Good, let’s begin.”

First up was a band called Led Zeppelin, their unique raw and powerful sound with “Communication Breakdown” furrowing Freddie’s brows and pressing Deaky’s lips together in confusion. After the band finished their first chorus, Miami flashed them a small grin, saying, “Yes, thank you. Next!”

“Hey,” the dark-haired singer in the audience muttered as the next musician—an amateur bassist by the name of Joe Mazzello—appeared onstage. He nudged Deaky in the arm and leaned in. “Doesn’t he look a bit like you?”

The frizzy-haired companion stared at the boy for a bit before shaking his head no. “Not really.”

“Well I hate it,” Freddie grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn’t aware of it in the moment, but his statement extended from the bassist’s look to his playing as well—the poor musician struggling to play just a few, simple riffs.

“Joe, I admire your—” Miami tried to cut in, but the boy appeared to be in a world of his own, determined to get the riff right if it meant the death of him. “As for your playing—” He plucked a few more notes. “What a wonderful shirt you’re wearing.” The bassist snapped out of it and looked down at his outfit with a small grin. “Next!”

The flamboyant singer’s eyes narrowed when he saw that the next person auditioning was none other than George Michael—the second gayest person in town. His home label was Columbia, and had this not been an open audition, he wouldn’t have been allowed to perform, let alone inside the building. However, Mott the Hoople insisted they explore any and all possibilities in the greater London area, so George took the stage with a confidence that gradually rubbed Miami the wrong way—his constant winking and pointing quickly getting on the manager’s nerves, so much so that he had to beg him to stop.

Next up was Susanna Hoffs, backed by her band, the Bangles. Her voice soared to levels Freddie could only dream of reaching. If there were windows in the recording studio, they surely would’ve shattered. Luckily, the separation between the live room and the control room was made of plexiglass.

“Ah, Miss Hoffs,” Miami murmured as the highest note she hit lost its resonance, yet still rang in everyone’s ears. “I didn’t even know it was possible to hit such a note. Bravo! Brava!” The bubbly singer rested her hand on her chest in appreciation, the smile on her face fading as the manager suggested, while sticking his finger in his ear and trying to get the ringing to stop, “Perhaps a different tour, though.”

Susanna tutted and marched out of the room with her girls in tow, replaced by an act very unlike the rest. Performed by Andy Summers, the man simply leapt across the room—grande jeté-ing, plié-ing, and pirouette-ing right into the wings, where he collided with a few of the amps and brought everyone to the edge of their seats.

It seemed impossible to follow such a jaw-dropping act, but one group dared to do it. They called themselves the Eurythmics, and their eccentric performance—complete with Annie Lennox’s short, bright orange hair and baton—certainly left an impression on Miami and everyone else in the room. However, it wasn’t the impression they’d hoped for.

“Well that was just...” the manager started, looking down at his notes and shaking his head, “...very disturbing. Go see someone, would you?” He shivered as the offended duo sulked off the stage and right out the door, where Roger had been hiding the entire time—watching each and every audition and wishing it was him up there. He was so caught up in his own fantasy that he neglected to recognize the new presence standing beside him, peering through the same, narrow sliver of glass in the door—just as intrigued as he.

“Thinking of auditioning?” an unexpected voice sounded in the blonde’s ear, startling him into the adjacent wall.

“Jesus Christ!” he shouted—his lacquered hand clutching his pounding chest and his previously distracted gaze finding its way to Brian’s. The blush in his cheeks seemed to take on a new hue as he stared at the tall guitarist with wide eyes, the curly-haired brunette gradually mirroring his facial expression as he saw through the blonde’s disguise.

“Roger?” Brian murmured in disbelief. “What on earth are you doing wearing makeup and a skirt?” The drummer remained silent, pressing his darkened lips together and hanging his head in shame in avoidance of the judgment he was sure to receive. It shocked him when the guitarist smirked and guessed, “No one knows you’re here, do they?”

“No,” Roger sighed, pulling away from the wall and returning to his post—brushing arms with the guitarist. The two watched as Miami dismissed yet another performer, the manager shaking his head in frustration as they walked away. “He hasn’t liked a single audition yet. There’s no way I can go in there.”

Brian chuckled. “Well, not dressed like that, you can’t.” The blonde glanced up at his new friend with a look that wiped the smile right off his face. Brian cleared his throat in an attempt to alleviate the tension that suddenly manifested between them and took another crack at his response. “Sorry. Is it because you’re nervous?”

The blonde scoffed. “No, I’m not nervous.” He returned his attention to the empty stage, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. It was silly, the feeling he had about performing. It was one thing writing and recording songs—not that he’d had much luck with either of those as of late—but going up on stage with a thousand or a million pairs of eyes staring back at you, all by yourself, that was an entirely different story.

It wasn’t that Roger hadn’t had experience playing gigs before; he’d done plenty of them, but the audiences he was accustomed to were incomparable in size to the one that Mott the Hoople was anticipating. Not to mention that, if by some off chance he _were_ to land the opening slot on the tour, he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. Dominique, Mary, and Debbie were more than just a trio of pretty faces—they made Roger who he was. If John Reid was right about one thing, it was that all four of them were Roger Taylor, and success wouldn’t come about unless each of them worked as a team. The problem was, he was afraid he couldn’t convince them to join him—leaving him with the biggest concern of all: _How was he going to do this without them?_

“Me either...most of the time,” Brian admitted sheepishly in response to the blonde’s confession.

Roger glanced over at the guitarist with a small grin, finding comfort in their shared, unspoken fear and remembering the story Brian had told him about the lousy gig where he fainted before he even got on stage. The drummer was tempted to bring the tale up in hopes of learning more about it—about _him_ —but before he could even part his lips to speak, it was Freddie and Deaky’s turn to audition, and they’d be damned if they didn’t put on a show.


End file.
